


Feedback Loop

by maypop



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypop/pseuds/maypop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic about the truth universally acknowledged that presented with a curious new object, humanity will find a way to have sex with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feedback Loop

You cannot be a world class assassin and female and not have within you—or maybe you cannot be female, other qualifiers aside, without having within an enormous desire to, for once, crack the condescension off someone’s face with startling amounts of pain and force them to take you seriously. But when you are a world class assassin _in addition_ to being female, you have means as well as desire, and people lie when they tell you that giving in to a desire will exorcise it. Of course it won’t. Behavior rewarded is repeated.  
  
Natasha knows where all her loops that can be pulled are, and whether they lead to laughter or blackouts or orgasms or bear traps. Loki doesn’t even see her as a fellow sentient. Superbeings are like that, until you burn the house around them. There’s always a key, there’s always some ring or pill or rhyme or trick or bit of moonlit rock you can use to bash _truth_ into _death_ , and then. And _then_. Then they _see you_ , the despised vermin that broke their self-important world.  
  
The device Stark and Banner makes chips off a piece of one of Loki’s teeth. Stark gives it to Natasha as a gift. He does have a talent for arousing women, she has to admit. She takes it back to her room and rolls it around and around in her hand.  
  
“Director,” she says the next day, when Fury is having another tedious argument with a Senator. “I think Loki should be bound, if only briefly. It might help your friends to know containment procedures have improved.” And then she returns to her important-looking busywork, for all she finished minutes ago, because appearances matter.  
  
She doesn’t fidget with her toy. Clint, in the guise of a friendly handclasp, feels it anyway.  
  
“Don’t do anything too stupid,” he says, while Fury is giving the orders, and adds: “Please.”  
  
“I intend to take all reasonable precautions,” she assures him.  
  
“Not good enough.”  
  
“If you provide me with a Stark-proof cellphone, I’ll send you pictures.”  
  
“Well,” Clint says, and deserts hq in what is certainly not a hurry.  
  
“The virus is spreading from a copper mine in Oyu Tolgoi,” Natasha tells Maria, after a few more minutes industrious typing. Galaga really is something. “I suggest assigning Bulkov, he’s the only one with a chance of fitting in. If you’ll excuse me…”  
  
She leaves, rolling the jagged piece of tooth between thumb and forefinger. It feels like granite.  
  
Back in her rooms she slumps against the door and delicately rolls it across her lips, feeling every tiny change in texture on the sensitive skin, cups herself through the tight material of her pants. The thick seam grinds hard against her clit. Banner’s not malicious, but _ she_ would have been, she wouldn’t have used any finesse when it was time to shove the flat bit between Loki’s sneering lips, the edge would have broken the tip off more than one canine, he probably would have _gagged_ on it, nasty inhuman grace made crude and gasping.  
  
She wonders if, underneath it, the corners of his lips are bleeding. If Asgardians get sweat-itchy under their gags, like everyone else. Natasha takes her hand away before she can come--dinner before dessert.  
  
“I’m here to relieve you,” Natasha says, that night, and the guard on Loki does not have the fortitude to tell her no. Sometimes being so widely known makes her feel uncomfortably exposed. Tonight it doesn’t.  
  
Turning off the cameras would set up such a howling, but people like Stark don’t think about low tech; she covers their pickups with bits of sticky black cloth. They’ll lose their adhesive in half an hour, and fall off without leaving a trace. She’ll be done by then. (Her fingers are slightly clumsy with impatience, like some baby recruit strapped to their first nuclear submarine.) Careful juggling of the work roster means there’s no one but Maria listening to the microphones, and Maria’s hero worship of the Black Widow borders on idolatry.  
  
Finally the foreplay is done, and she slips inside the room where Loki is strapped down. He’s winched down so securely Natasha has one of those brief _I was not always Fury’s_ moments where she wants to break him out just to see if she can. Even his fingers are locked down, each one individually looped with some kind of darkly gleaming metal. She traces them, fascinated with the texture of Asgardian skin, and with the rage in his eyes.  
  
“I’m told I have a classical education rattling around in this head somewhere, Loki Scarlip, Loki Silvertongue,” Natasha says, as she’s leisurely climbing up onto the table that holds him. “I doubt that impresses you. I doubt much does.”  
  
She peels out of her pants efficiently, drapes them over one of his arms. Natasha straddles his face, and sinks down until the cold metal of his gag presses into her. For a moment she just sits, watching the anger in his face, until the throbbing between her legs becomes too much and she starts to move, gently, leisurely, grinding her aching clit into a protuberance in the metal.  
  
“I’m not much for intimate,” she says. “But slow-- _slow_ I can do. Give me a smile, and I’ll even clean you off when I’m done.”


End file.
